Once Upon A Tyme

Chapter 1

‘Mum! Granddad swore,’ tattle-tailed Marc, miffed, eleven year old, video game is my world, grandson.

‘Dad!’ groaned Lucy, harassed, single parent holding down job, daughter.

‘But there’s some disgusting goo stuck to my backside,’ bewailed Tom, disgruntled, stuck in his ways and won’t be told, granddad.

‘It’s not goo,’ protested Marc, ‘it’s my stringy cheese.’

Ignoring was chosen as an acceptable way forward by Lucy as she tried to concentrate on the road ahead.

‘Why’s Granddad here?’ asked the silent, until now, car’s other passenger, Kate, enigmatic – her words – moody – her mum’s words – fourteen year old granddaughter.

Lucy, realising sadly that ignoring was not after all going to be a viable course of action, sighed and related the reason Granddad was with them that morning. ‘He wants to collect his first pension in person.’

‘I thought they’d stopped that,’ said Kate, frowning. ‘Don’t they pay it into a bank account or something now?’

‘Try telling your Granddad that,’ said Lucy, hoping for all their sakes that her daughter wouldn’t.

Kate turned in her seat and gave her Granddad, sitting in the back, a long, hard stare. He returned her stare by crossing his eyes. Kate resumed her forward position.

But Tom was going to have his say anyway. ‘It’s my right,’ he said.

‘But you haven’t even got a pension book,’ said Kate, taking the bait. Lucy’s shoulders sagged a little.

‘It’s the principle of the thing,’ said Tom, getting into gear, ‘I’m making a stand.’

‘The cheese won’t come off him,’ wailed a voice from the back.

‘What principles?’ asked Kate, swallowing the hook.

Lucy’s shoulders were now so low she was having trouble steering.

‘Post offices,’ said Tom.

Lucy took a moment to cast a despairing glance at her dad in the rear view mirror. ‘I thought it was about your pension,’ she said. Dammit! she thought, sucked right in. But before she had time to fully rue her mistake and acquire an ear-bashing lecture on the rights and wrongs of anything and everything Tom thought was wrong with the world, they arrived at their destination; or Tom’s at least. Lucy pulled the car up to the kerb and stopped alongside the village post office cum mini-mart. Tom alighted with cheese stuck to his backside.

‘See you this evening then?’ said Tom, leaning down to the driver’s side window.

‘Like I said,’ said Lucy, ‘if I’ve got time. I’ve that video conference scheduled for six. Don’t know how long that will go on for.’

Tom peered beyond Lucy at the kids. ‘What about you kids?’ said Tom, putting on a look of frailty, ‘you’ll visit yer ol’ granddad this evening. On his birthday. Won’t you?’ Katie?’ Lucy half expected humble hand wringing to materialise. Thankfully it didn’t.

‘It’s Kate,’ corrected Kate, ‘and I’m going to Zoë’s until Mum gets home.’ She folded her arms and adopted a stare ahead at any cost position.

‘Marc? You’ll visit your old granddad.’

‘Suppose so,’ Marc started, something approaching a look of disgust on his face, but before he could say anything else he was interrupted by Lucy.

‘Not so fast young man, you’re going to Andy’s until I get home.’ Lucy looked from Marc to her dad. ‘Sorry Dad, would have asked you to look after them, but I thought you might have plans.’

The look on Marc’s face brightened as he remembered Andy had the latest shoot ‘em up and make as much gore as you could console game. ‘Take that alien scum!’ he suddenly spouted, followed by an eruption of sound effects.

Lucy took to frowning at her son.

‘More of that fantasy rubbish,’ Tom harrumphed, scowling. He backed from the window. ‘Don’t know what goes through kids’ heads these days? Well, sorry for existing. It’s only my birthday. The special one. The one where I have to learn to survive on meagre handouts from the government. Perhaps I’ll call in on the council on the way home and see if they have any of those old folk visitors with nothing better on their hands. Perhaps they’ll find time to visit a lonely old man in his dotage.’

‘Don’t be so melodramatic Dad.’ Lucy put the car into first. ‘You’ve probably more money than the Queen.’ She looked up at Tom and weakened a little. ‘Look, I can’t promise anything, but I hope to be finished with this meeting by eight. If I do I’ll pop round. Bring the kids. I’ve a bottle of plonk in the fridge, I’ll bring that and we can drink your health.’ Beside her Kate’s eyes had taken on a mischievous look. ‘At least we will,’ said Lucy, noticing.

‘Could be dead then.’

‘I’ll drink it myself then. See you about eight.’ Without waiting for further comment, Lucy took advantage of a gap in the traffic and pulled away. She tooted as she went.

‘Do you think he suspects?’ asked Kate, as she waved at her granddad who wasn’t looking.

‘Not a thing,’ smiled Lucy.

‘Did you get the cake?’ said Marc, hoping it would be sponge and not fruit.

‘Picking it up later.’

The car disappeared into the distance.

Chapter 2

Tom chuckled to himself as he tried to pull on the door even though the sign beside the handle said push. They think I’m stupid, he thought, but you can’t put one over on old Tom, no sirree. He had accidentally discovered the receipt for his birthday cake a couple of days ago and further research, of the undercover kind, threw up certain plans that were secretively afoot. You just couldn’t fool an old fool; or something like that. Tom stopped pulling and after a cursory glance to see if anyone had been watching, pushed.

Inside the post office cum mini-mart the owner, Mister Smokowski, was donning his trademark grocer’s apron. He didn’t really need one, but felt that one should follow tradition when able. He looked across at Tom as he stumbled through the doorway.

‘Morning, Mister Tyme,’ breezed Smokowski, on seeing his first customer of the day. ‘Door sticking again?’ he enquired, smiling. The question was met with a grunt. Undaunted, Smokowski retained the services of his smile. ‘And what can I do you for this bright and sunny morn?’

‘You can cut the crap for one thing, Smokowski,’ growled Tom, playfully, as he peered outside at the rain threatening clouds that were gathering, ‘and get me my pension as the law and my lifetime contributions to the state dictate I should on this, my sixty-fifth birthday on God’s good Earth.’

Smokowski became grave faced. ‘The Principle?’ he said.

‘Damn right, the Principle.’

The smile returned. ‘Happy birthday, Tom.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Having a party?’

‘Would seem so,’ said Tom, exchanging grins with the shopkeeper. ‘You coming?’

‘Can’t, stocktaking.’

‘Shame. See you about eight then.’

‘Wouldn’t miss it. Now, what can I really get you?’

‘Give me a second class stamp and the saddest birthday card you got. One with an old fool fishing or something.’

‘Birthday card?’

‘For me.’

Smokowski raised an eyebrow.

‘Should have at least one card on yer birthday,’ said Tom, looking as sad as he could.

‘From you?’

‘Of course.’

‘Stamp?’ queried a frowning Smokowski.

‘Gotta make it look as if it’s been delivered.’

‘You could write, delivered by hand on the front. Save a small fortune. Also make you look even sadder.’

‘Good man, Smokowski,’ laughed Tom.

Smokowski went to a display of assorted cards and had a rummage through. ‘No fishermen,’ he said after a moment, ‘but I have got this one.’ He showed it to Tom. It had a picture of an old squire or the like leaning on a fence and a rustic looking walking stick. The dog at his feet looked quite dead.

‘Good choice,’ said Tom, clearly delighted.

‘No other post yet then?’ asked Smokowski.

‘Postie hadn’t arrived when I’d left, but I suppose he’ll be empty handed when he does. Unless of course I receive that letter from the Prime Minister I’m expecting.’

The shopkeeper made a phew-wee sound. ‘The Prime Minister eh?’

‘Yeah. Rumour has it everyone’s going to get one.’

‘Really?’

‘On my oath,’ said Tom, trying to keep a straight face. ‘Called a fiscal recovery request, so I heard.’

‘Ah!’ said Smokowski, ‘a begging letter.’ He started laughing.

‘So,’ said Tom, moving swiftly on, ‘told you to keep them back, has she?’

‘Lucy popped in the other day.’ Smokowski started to put the card in a bag. ‘She said she’d pick them up later this afternoon.’

‘As mean and as sly as her old mother, that one, God rest her soul.’ Tom put his hands together and raised his eyes skyward.

‘She’s living in Crewe isn’t she?’

‘One can only hope,’ said Tom.

‘That’ll be one British squid then please.’

‘A whole squid?’ said Tom, feigning horror, or not. ‘But it’s crap.’

‘The best crap I’ve got in the shop,’ said Smokowski, holding out a hand.

‘Fair do’s,’ said Tom, rifling a pocket. He pulled out a coin that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a museum.

Smokowski took it and took a moment to look at it.

‘It’s real,’ said Tom, narrowing his eyes, ‘bite it.’

The thought of putting it in his mouth was the last thing on Smokowski’s mind. ‘I’ll trust you,’ said the shopkeeper, sliding the coin into the shadows of the till for later and closer inspection. ‘Anything else I can do you for?’

A thoughtful look stole across Tom’s face. ‘You don’t sell flat caps, perchance?’

‘You are going downhill fast.’

‘The Principle,’ said Tom.

‘Sorry, no,’ said Smokowski, ‘but you could try the farm shop. Or failing that, you could ask old Missus Dewhurst.’

‘She sells hats?’

‘No, but her hubby, Arthur, used to wear them. Mayhap she’ll still have the odd one lying around.’

‘Old Arthur died years ago,’ said Tom, wrinkling his nose at the thought of ancient headwear.

‘You could always wash it,’ said Smokowski, helpfully. ‘Besides, the worn effect will add to the look.’

Tom couldn’t argue with that. ‘I’ll be off then,’ he said, making for the door.

‘Don’t forget your card.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Tom taking the proffered card. He took a quick peek at it. ‘Smashing,’ he said, ‘the old fart’s wearing bi-focals.’

‘Talking of,’ said Smokowski, ‘where’re your bins?’

‘Only need them for driving,’ said Tom, pushing the door.

‘Pull.’

Tom pulled open the door, wished Smokowski a woeful day and left. Next stop the farm shop.

Chapter 3

Tom T. Tyme; sixty-five today. Prone to dressing mostly in distressingly old-fashioned grey corduroy trousers and jacket; not usually matching. Divorced. Hasn’t worked for five years; if pressed, known to quip he was in training for looming retirement. The truth: down to the demise of one Great-Uncle Rufus who expired at the ripe old age of one hundred and twenty. Abode: a cottage called Hope End; again down to Great-Uncle Rufus who bequeathed it along with the shedload of money keeping Tom from honest work. The shed being an offshore account, that houses a sum of money with more noughts in its number than that of the account number. Tom likes the cottage’s name. He thinks its name befitting of an old codger.

One child; a daughter, Lucy; personal assistant to someone who thinks they are important. Deserted and divorced; her ex-husband somewhere in the Arctic Circle; so it’s rumoured. Good riddance. Two grandchildren; Kate, a normal fourteen year old; whatever that was, and Marc; eleven and not normal. Well, how can he be? All that interest in fantasy and stuff. Should be outside doing what comes natural; conkers and that.

All in all Tom was an otherwise quite unspectacular man, a straight man, a no-nonsense sort of a man, a man of reality, a sensible man, who had thus far lived an equally unspectacular, sensible, normal life – if you didn’t count the shedload of money – and who could often be found finding solace in his garden shed,* where there could be found a numerous amount of things not to do and an equal amount of things to ignore. He has also been known to saunter. Mostly in a straight line to the local hostelry; the line back not always as straight!

Tom sat at the kitchen table in a spare pair of cords, staring through the kitchen window into the garden beyond as he absently picked at the cheese stuck to the ones he had been wearing. His search for a flat cap had been a fruitless one. The farm shop a waste of time and Missus Dewhurst, sweet but strange old dear that she was, had been more interested in making tea and asking him what he was going to do with it when he found one. But that didn’t mean the end of the world. No, he didn’t need a flat cap to prove he was an old codger; he could do that all by himself without the need for props. He stopped picking and idly tapped his fingers on the table top to the rhythm of the music emanating from his old radio.

He liked his radio; you didn’t have to look at the presenters. Tom didn’t like presenters. Overpaid tossers. He knew it was the same for radio but at least he didn’t have to look at their smug faces as they spouted their spiel. And woe betide any poor soul that mentioned the licence fee. Television tax, more like. This is what Tom thought.

Tom had other pet hates. He didn’t like the government. Overpaid tossers. Not that he was political. He disliked all governments, whatever the colour of the rosette. He wasn’t a career moaner though, not by a long chalk. And he didn’t totally think of himself as an old fart; he just liked playing the part. That was his excuse. Other hates were so many he could fill a book, but perhaps no more than your fellow Joe or Josette – to be politically correct – which was another hate – when it came down to it. He was just a little more vocal than perhaps other people might be. Tom stopped his tapping and looked at the shed.

His most favourite place in the whole wide world was the shed. It was large, airy and chock full of contraptions he didn’t, and didn’t want to, understand. That was Uncle Rufus for you. Eccentric to the end; Tom guessed. And not being able to understand, meant he could wile the hours away and not be disturbed by the world and its distractions. He didn’t like distractions. Waste of time. He didn’t like newspapers. He didn’t like the phone ringing. He liked the uncomplicated quiet of the shed.

He now turned his attention to the other building in the garden. This was way past being hated. A portable loo. Tom scowled at it. It was a monstrosity, but it had to stay. For some reason only known to him, Rufus had stipulated in his will that it could not be removed whilst Hope End stood. Tom narrowed his eyes. There was a perfectly good toilet indoors. Salmon pink in colour yes, but perfectly serviceable. Why the thing was there in the garden he would never know. The thing was ugly. Took up too much of the garden and was… was… useless. Its once white roof was yellowing under the weight of the lichen growing there. As for the blue of the body, well, that was fading fast. Tom hoped it would fade into oblivion. He had tried to clean it, but it seemed impervious to all his efforts and just shrugged them off. He had tried to open it, but the blasted door was stuck fast however much he tugged or levered; perhaps for the better. Goodness knows what might be growing in there. He had even tried to camouflage the damn thing by planting shrubs etc. in front of it, but all had died off quite quickly. Tom suspected something nasty was seeping from it and was poisoning the ground. But that didn’t explain the fence he had erected mysteriously blowing down. It was as if the flaming thing wanted to see what was going on. It was downright creepy, but Tom wasn’t one to dwell too much on the strange or weird. There had to be a perfectly plausible reason for it all. There was no room for fantasy in his life. He suspected there might be some scientific reason for it all, but he hadn’t the faintest idea what that could be. So he just put up with it; begrudgingly. Tom, when all said and done, was your ordinary down to earth kind of guy; a practical man. Hungry: food. Cold: more clothes; usually a cardigan these days, or chop wood. Strange goings on: ignore them. The phone started ringing. Ignore that too. Time to visit the shed.

* Not to be confused with the one full of money!

Chapter 4

Outside, the weather was still undecided. Tom shut the back door behind him and started down the garden path. Dotted along its edge and spilling onto it stood dwarf lavender bushes almost five feet in height. Obviously no one had bothered to tell them. Tom could remember hiding behind them as a kid, from his brother during a game of hide and seek. Tim was sadly long gone. Tom did wonder sometimes if they were still the same plants. Did lavender live that long? The threatened rain started to fall, large lazy thunder spots landing on the concrete path. Tom gave himself the hurry up. The path was about a hundred feet long and he was only just halfway along it. It would be a sod if the heavens opened up before he got there. They could do what they liked when he did.

Doubling his pace, Tom made it to the shed door just as the clouds decided enough was quite enough and let terra firma have it big time. As he shut the door, Tom glanced up at the sky. All was black, grey and heavy. The rain was here for a while.

Because of the darkened sky the shed was veiled in gloom. Tom felt for the light switch. The sixty watt bulb bloomed into life and attempted to illuminate the assemblage of weird and wonderful objects Great-Uncle Rufus had seen fit to store within the shed’s four wooden walls. Most covered with tarpaulin, the rest with dust.

Tom took in the sight and headed for his seat; a deckchair, held together only by the grace of whatever saw fit to keep such ancient things in one piece. It had been borrowed some time ago from Brighton seafront. He carefully positioned his posterior over it and gently lowered away until contact was made. This was always a tense moment. A sigh of relief as the material held. Tom relaxed, now for a little Tom time. Tom closed his eyes.

He spent the next ten minutes or so like that. Gently drifting. Not asleep, but not awake. Meditating some would call it. Then there came the scratching.

At first Tom managed to keep his eyes shut to it, but it wasn’t going away and after a couple of minutes of gently growing insistency, he could ignore it no longer. Tom opened an investigative eye. He couldn’t see anything untoward in the immediate vicinity. He continued with his meditating with his eye open. He could sleep that way too; a trait that ran in the males of the family. The women of the family, so it was rumoured as no man had ever seen it happen, could sleep with both eyes open and even cook a full breakfast while doing it if they put their minds to it.

The scratching continued but now accompanied by a mewling sound. Tom flicked open his other eye. What did a man have to do around here to get a bit of peace and quiet?

Tom shifted in his deckchair and tried to place where the sound was coming from. He homed in and if he was right, someone or something was scratching at the shed door.

Chapter 5

The door inched open. Rain spattered on the threshold. There followed a gasp. Followed by an exclamation of what could have been relief.

‘Oh, it’s you!’

‘Well that’s a nice welcome,’ said Lucy, shaking her brolly. She stepped in and placed it by the door, ‘perhaps I should take my trade elsewhere.’

‘Sorry,’ said Mister Smokowski.

‘It’s okay, I’m only joking. Are you all right?’ Lucy gave Smokowski a concerned look. The man looked positively ashen.

‘Yes,’ said Smokowski, distractedly, then appeared to pull himself together, ‘yes, sorry. What can I do for you Lucy?’ There was just a hint of emphasise on her name. ‘The post?’

Lucy had taken the day off work, dropped the kids at school, run a couple of errands, finished a couple of chores to clear the decks and was now ready to start the preparations for Toms birthday bash. ‘Has it arrived yet?’

Smokowski wasn’t properly listening. He was standing behind his counter like a rabbit caught in headlights.

‘Mister Smokowski?’

‘Eh? No…sorry. Er…I have to do something. Is there anything else I can help you with before you leave?’

Well there’s a brush off if ever I heard one, thought Lucy. Old Smokowski came across as an odd one to Lucy at the best of times, from a different world or time on occasion, but she couldn’t ever recall the man being on this form, or looking as agitated. ‘I…’ she started, then, thinking better of